Calculate Coincidence Circumstance Turbulence
by EverMaguire
Summary: What if Logan and the Professor weren't the only people to remember the events that happened in the old timeline before it was fixed? Jean remembers everything. How does this affect her friends and her family? - Scott x Jean.
1. Prologue

So this story was inspired by X-Men Days Of Future Past. The pairing is Scott/Jean, I've been a long time fan of the pair. This story does contain spoilers. As always, lots of angsty goodness. Feel free to leave a comment.

* * *

_Cause baby can't see through, all this matter and makeup and déjà vu_

_Yeah we drift here alone with nothing to do_

_Until one of us makes the other one come true_. - Déjà vu - Something for Kate.

* * *

Thick velvety drapes met the burnished kiss of the early morning as narrow shafts of summer sun streamed through glassy panes and into the room where Jean Grey lay. A heavy arm was thrown over her middle, and her lover's long fingers curled into the hem of the simple cotton chemise that fell in a neat line, bunched at the top of her thighs. Dark lashes fluttered against the pale skin of her cheek, but her eyes remained closed. That dream again, the one that sucked her down and held her beneath the surface so that she couldn't breathe - It seemed to be consuming her. Every time she closed her eyes, the foundations shook and the dams burst and great, gushing torrents of water crashed over her and filled her lungs. She struggled for breath, every single time, but the darkness didn't claim her, not really. Beside her Scott slumbered peacefully, his face lined with the shadows of fatigue, even behind the ruby red lenses that veiled his optical faculties, she knew that he was not exempt from the dark rims wrought by the hand of exhaustion. Sometimes it was necessity - he lived because she did, inhaled the air that she exhaled because her breathe gave him life. More often than not it was a wakeup call, lives depending on him to lead from the front, maintaining a human face in an unrelenting world of hatred.

"You think too much." His voice was hoarse, plied with the trappings of fragmented sleep that had refused to honor him with its presence. His fingertip tapped against his temple and their bond flared for a brief moment, rippling at the edge of his consciousness before a third presence flickered. A long string of golden filament shimmered, it was bright and bold, dancing like the grand master of ceremonies in all of his finery.

"Your son is awake," Scott mumbled, and then rolled onto his hip, hands easing Jean the crook of his body so that her back was pressed against the length of his front like a second skin. His heart kept time beneath his ribcage and his chest rose and fell methodically. Her head fell to his shoulder and she pressed her nose against the arc of his neck. His skin was warm and soft, his elevated body temperature a constant composition of heat that warmed her through.

"Scott, you know that he doesn't mean it. Things are just … it's just hard for him at this age. He's confused. Yes, you're his dad, but you're also the leader of the X-Men. Nate just needs to find a balance between the two. He'll work it out, he'll understand soon enough that Dad means more to him than Cyclops."

Scott scoffed, his nostrils flared and he shook his head. Nate was the best and the worst parts of his mother and father, an eclectic fusion on stubborn on strong, the child was tenacious. It was in those snatches of impatience, of nobility, when he submitted himself to the hands of authority, that Scott was aware of his son's place in his life. And it was in those moments that he was sure that just like his father before him, he would always worry about whether or not he was enough to make his boy proud.

"That doesn't mean he has to refer to himself as _Nate Grey_," Scott intoned, his biceps contracting as his arms tightened around Jean's middle. "Sometimes it feels like we went to sleep one night and woke up in another time, in another place. Not that I'm complaining, but he is a Summers."

Jean was stiff in his embrace, her vision blurred and her head snapped up as her acute reflexes reacted to the trigger of his obviously facetious tongue-in-cheek. "Jean? What is it? Talk to me." He'd had his hand out groping for his shirt before he even gave her a fraction of a chance to process the request.

"Scott, it's nothing, I just overreacted, really, I'm fine."

He'd only ever known Jean to recoil like that in the face of pain, when her grasp on the Holy grail slipped and it fell through the cracks in her fingers. Scott had known Jean a long time, and even back then, when her fledgling mind was still grasping at straws, her depth of sensory perception underdeveloped, he knew that Jean would not react for anything less than just cause.

"Okay, Jean. I believe you." His sincerity belied his true sense of belief, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his back pressed against the headboard. Again, he felt himself reach for her, he wasn't good with words, forged from a lifetime of trauma, the ability to lay it all out alluded him, he was a tactician. Adept in planning, sharing his love with Jean hadn't been a natural progression. His heart would beat for her, one of those women you read about, habitually stripping his power away, making him weak at the knees. He drew her into the strength of his body because when he wasn't able to tell her about the fact that she could thieve his breath away, he could show her. Fingers that were battle worn and rough stole over her body, grazing her shoulder, where her throat hollowed down into the valley of her breasts. He etched his passion into her skin, laid the platform for his fidelity and devotion, and willed his love to seep deep down into her bones.

He pushed the loose locks of fringe from her forehead and laid his lips upon her hair. They didn't need to speak to know what the other was thinking. But Jean found that even with Scott by her side, she couldn't starve off the overwhelming sense of foreboding déjà vu.

* * *

Jean's hair was coifed into sections and curls spilled down over her shoulders, her back was straight against the door frame, and her lips curled up into a hint of a smile as she watched Scott in his element, holding an audience with the Professor. He was comfortable, she knew that in his mind it all made sense. His intent was clear, he could make a plan and take action towards his resolve. He was calculating, he had his head in the game. Jean was so focused on the rugged cut of Scott's locked jaw, she didn't hear Logan until he was beside her. She inhaled a deep breath and gave a brief smile. "Hi, Logan."

"Jean …"

Jean's brow creased and she cocked her head to the side. He looked peaky, pale, the look on his face, like he'd seen a ghost. Jean shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her heart beats per minute accelerated and she felt clammy, her arms felt heavy by her sides.

"Jean, you're here."

She really didn't like where this was going. "Of course, where else would I be?"

She refused to hold his gaze, she feared what she might find in his eyes, she feared that the truth might be something that she didn't want to hear. And yet, she was drawn, like a woman possessed, she felt a connection, she craved the unknown. Her mind flashed, water, choking her, gasping. Scott, pain, Phoenix. Hate, hate that flowed, stagnant, water, so much water, carrying little paper boats to meet their end.

"Woah."

_Scott._

"Easy pal."

Logan's head turned, his eyes were wide as they moved back and forth between the two, almost as if he was trying to slot the pieces into place, but he couldn't quite decide where to put them. "Well, some things never change."

The sincerity in his voice, it startled her. Logan was reaching for Scott, and Jean arched her back against the polished hard wood door. There was only one way this could end, one of them was bound for the medical bay, she would have to intervene before one of them became another statistic she didn't want to see pass across her desk.

"It's good to see you, Scott."

Scott recoiled, behind the lenses of his glasses, she could sense him roll his eyes, he glared down at the fingers that gripped his shoulder in disgust and shrugged off the offending limb. "Uh huh. I'll see you later, Jean." He leaned into her, leaned right into his fiancée, the swell of he cheek was cupped in the palm of his hand and his lips brushes hers, gentle at first, and then harder, his synapses snapped, the bond shimmered, and then it was gone, and so was Scott, his hands in his pockets as he ascended the stairs, two at a time.

"Professor," Logan drawled, and stepped past Jean. He was smiling, Logan had a smile that curled up either side of his mouth. The laugh lines accentuated his features, he looked every bit his age - however old that might be.

"Hello, Logan. I've been waiting for you. Why don't you come in, have a seat, we have much to discuss. What is the last thing you remember? I sense your confusion, but you will have your answers, my friend."

"Drowning." Logan didn't miss a beat. He pulled the seat back from the table and glanced back at Jean over his shoulder. She was still, deathly so. Her eyes were wide, she felt like she was sinking. Drowning, she couldn't save herself, she gasped for air, a strange feeling in the pit of her belly. Her eyes flashed, she felt the fire, kindled with rage. She closed her eyes acknowledged it, accepted it, and then Charles was saying her name. He was reaching out to her, his mind in her mind.

_'Jean. Why don't you join us. There is much to be told, I think you will appreciate what I have to say. It's time I told you both the truth.'_

She couldn't see through the uncertainty as she took up her post beside Logan. She had to know what this meant. She had to make some sense out of it. For herself, for Scott and for their son.

"The future is not always certain," the Professor began. "Knowing too much of your future is never a good thing."


	2. Chapter 1 - Twin Flames

**All mistakes are mine.**

**I don't own them. **

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_"The sentinels were coming for us. There was no way that we could escape, there was nowhere left to go, we were surrounded, all four corners encompassed. We knew that the inevitable had come, to descend upon us. It truly was the begining of the end in every sense of the word. Just you, Logan, Katherine, Robert, Magneto and myself left. _

_Erik- Magneto tried in vain to protect us from the onslaught, he utilized each and every last scrap of alloy that he could muster to erect a wall to keep them out ... The wall held for as long as we had, as long as it possibly could. In the end, I had to watch Robert as he marched off to what I was sure would be certain death. I closed my eyes, comforted by the few, brief words that Erik and I should have exchanged long before their time. _

_When I opened my eyes again, I was home, we were all home, back at Xaviers. You did it, Logan. You saved us all, the mutant race as we know it, owe our lives to you, certaily, Scott and Jean owe their lives to you."_

The blood echoed through Jean's ears as it rushed through a complex series of vessels and veins. It seemed like hours, flexible and yielding. She could not withstand the pressure, forceful, flowing like anger, cutting across jagged rocks and debris, moving with the aid of motion, gravity drawing her down. Sinking. Taking her secrets with her as she would eventually succumb, drifting along on the tide.

"Jean?" Logan found himself reaching across the space between them to cover her hand with his. He'd seen that look on her face before, she'd looked so small and insignificant, helpless, as she'd processed the fact that she'd taken the life of the one that she held dear.

He cursed himself, he should have saved her. It should have been him, the one that she shared a bond with, and he hated the fact that he couldn't share the same sort of link that she and Scott had long ago established. Her mind was as far away from his as he knew it could be, not like Charles, who had access upon request. There was always going to be six degrees of separation and a mile to go between them.

But he had sensed her fear, she was terrified, if the pale state of her stiff knuckles was any sort of indication, the thin line of her lips supported his theory.

"Should I get Scott?" Logan asked for Jean, and only for Jean. He was pleased to note that she hadn't revoked her hand as his thumb and forefinger closed around the digits that clawed at the armrest.

"No."

Charles enunciated the word clearly, his tone remained the same, but his instruction was met with a raised brow.

"No?" Charlie, look at her, Jeannie is practically catatonic. It won't take long for Scott to realise that something is wrong with his wife."

The professor smiled, but his gaze remained solely on Jean. "She is merely processing the information that I have shared. She does appear to be in a daze, but she is still responding to neural stimuli.

_Hello, Jean. Are you alright? It's Charles Xavier, Jean. It's safe here, Jean. Would you like to come back now?_

For a second, all too brief as he saw it, her fingers trembled. Logan watched, but said nothing. His wrist locked and the palm of his broard hand fell flat against the silky smooth hand of the woman beside him, concealed by the sheer size, masked, protected like a child. He wasn't about to let her out of his sight, he wasn't going to relinquish the touch.

"I'm here, I love you, Jean. I don't care about the man on the second floor with the ring that matches yours. I'm here to protect you. I'll protect you, I'll always be here to do that, Jean."

The professor frowned, Jean's link with Scott flared and tapered, and as it did, the fine, willowy threads that fused Jean to her husband, to her son, were concealed as she shut down the psychic rapport. She forced the threads into the most secure pocket she could find, the molecules packed tight to cushion the blow as she fought to protect her family.

Charles had the foresight to maintain a placid temperament as his legs carried him into the depths of Jean's psyche. The door he approached was stark, white, clinical, and closed. A crooked sign was swinging, fluctuating like a pendulum chased by the breeze. It had been crudely and hastily hung, and declared that the occupant of the room would not be disturbed.

Charles knocked, and waited. He could feel Jean's consciousness, it would not be suppressed as she so a dam who's banks were ready to burst forth, her anguish was driving her to share the burden that she struggled to contain.

_Friendship needs no words, Jean. Deliver yourself from your solitude and we will do this together. There's no need to hurt Scott and young Nathaniel in the process. You know Scott will be on his way down to check on you. He loves you, Jean. Scott can sense your pain. But you have my word, Jean. Whatever you tell me, whatever passes between us will remain so, between us. _

Jean didn't respond, she continued to maintain her silence, but the professor knew better, he held his ground. Even after Scott Summers had vauled several stairs and a maze of desks and chairs. After Jean's husband had unhinged the door with an impressive, but rather impractical display of his optical talents, and had entered the office, affraid for his wife.

In a show of defiance, Logan refused to move. He refused to let go of his position, and Jean's hand. The man known to the world as Cyclops began to pace.

Like a watchman at the gate, a gentle gust swept past the professor and Jean revealed herself.

_Oh, Jean. _

She was vulnerable, as fat, salty teardrops left the matted veil of lashes that covered her damp cheeks. Silently, relentlessly, they carved a language of grief into her skin. Scott could do nothing to comfort her, behind the ruby quartz lenses he gazed at Logan. He gnawed at his thumb nail like it was a lifeline. His teeth were grating, whittling his nail plate down to nothing. It wasn't long before his son joined him. The two stood vigil together, side by side, united in concern for wife and mother. Scott pulled Nate close, as close as he could. He loved his son. Nate was quick to soothe his father, assuring him that even though the path was dark, the flame that embodied his mother was still very much burning.

_Nate._

A single word, but it was still something the professor could work with, he latched onto the thought in the hopes of coaxing Jean out of her self imposed exile.

_Nathaniel is right here. Would you like talk to him, Jean?_

_No!_

Charles was puzzled. Jean doted on the boy, he had healed her soul and absolved her childish fears. With Nathaniel and Scott, Jean was content, she was happy. She had purpose, they required her love. Charles obliged Jean in her time of need. With the link all but closed off, there was little the boy could do.

_He is very concerned for you, Jean, as is Scott. They are both here, by your side. They are waiting to see you. _

_It's not real, _Jean thought. _They're not real. It's just an illusion. Scott is dead. I killed him. ME! I KILLED SCOTT. _

_Well, right as you might be, Jean, I can tell you with absolute certainty that Scott is right here beside me. As is your son. _

Her silence couldn't protect them, but Jean remained quietly contemplating. A sliver of light was the only thing that moved between herself and the Charles, the only thing that gave any indication of signs of life. It was the quiet calm before the storm that Jean was about to unleash.

_My son, _she scoffed. _My son is an anomoly. Professor, my own son, he's not real, not meant to be. He's just a stand in, until the next major catastrophe occurs and he's taken away from me. _

_Jean ... _

_No, no. You don't understand. We were dead. I know. I remember. Scott was there. When I got to the White Hot Room. He was waiting for me. He told me ... He said ... He smiled. I could see his eyes, they were blue, they were beautiful. He told me that he forgave me. He told me that he loved me. He kissed my lips and promised that I would find him again when the time was right. And then - then he was gone. Don't you see? It's a cycle that will never end. This is my punishment. _

Charles shook his head. _No, Jean. That timeline, it was a temporal shift in time, that was the anomaly. Scott was right, but the time was not. Nathaniel was meant to be from the very beginning. This life, this time, it's stable. There is no flux in the continuum. Lucas Bishop assured us, and Hank double checked the mathematical equations. You are home, Jean. _

There was nothing more for Charles to do, this was no longer his fight, for all that he considered Jean his own flesh and blood, Nathaniel's mind could corrupt them all if he didn't allow the boy the chance to channel his energies. Choosing to ignore Logan, Charles gave Scott the nod he had so desparately hoped for upon his arrival.

Nate kneeled next to his mother, his white streak of fringe fell across his face and he pushed it away. His five physical senses were alert and in tune, golden chords rippled like a spark to a flame. They were connected, manifesting love that he compelled with a shove. He practiced only partial control, too afraid to let go, too scared that if he did, they would lose her. His father's song joined them, like an echo, it grounded them. His impulses welled with the capacity to overload, but he was steady and careful, he would not compromise his mother, or his father.

On her left, Scott clutched her hand, the gold band that circled her finger was cool against his skin as he drew it to his lips. He closed his eyes and missed the slow retreat of the Wolverine, his head bowed. Charles followed at Logan's elbow, guiding his friend back to his respite. There was sleep to be had, and a family who needed time, he was all too aware.

"Mom, mom it's me, it's Nate, Ma. Dad's here too, we're worried about you, can you open your eyes?"

"Nate?" She whispered her son's name, "Scott?" And then her husband's in quick succession.

Scott's hand was shaking as it came to rest on his firstborn's shoulder, Nate let out a breath that had caught in his throat. She was going to be fine. He hadn't doubted her for a second. His mother was the lifeblood of the family, a true matriarch, she kept them going. She kissed his skinned knees, she peeled the skin of his apples into the world's longest spiral, she kept dad sane when there were so many times he could just crash and burn.

_We conquer together, Jean. Nate and I can't do this without you. _

"Don't listen to your father, Nate. He's the one who remembers that you like your oatmeal made with milk and a dash of water. He taught me to read braille when I was studying for my doctorate. Your dad held you after you were born, and he told me that you were perfect. Even with that wrinkled little forehead and those flushed cheeks. In your father's eyes, you were so precious."

Jean had to blink several times to clear her vision. She smiled at her son first, his face cupped in the palms of her hands. Her thumb brushed the bridge of his nose and she pressed the soft pad into the tip like she'd done so many times when he was an infant. Nate rolled his eyes, "Mom, I'm not a kid anymore."

"No," Jean chuckled, "You're a Summers. That's worse."

"I'd really like a second opinion on that matter," Scott mumbled from his perch beside them. His arms were folded against his chest and he huffed indignantly. Even through the reflection of his glasses, Jean was sure that she could see the mischief in his eyes.

"Well, I married you, that's really all there is you need to know."

Between them their son faux coughed and Scott pulled Jean to her feet. She was well past feeling sorry for herself, but that didn't chang the fact that there was still something that she would have to hide from both of them. Information that she needed to fold into a neat little package and store deep in the recesses of her mind. She had vowed to be honest to her husband, she had promised not to keep secrets, but there were some things that he didn't need to know. As Charles himself had said, that was a different place, another time.

She knew that there was no easy way to tell your husband that you'd killed him, even a lifetime ago was too much for her to bear. Her knees buckled for a second and only the arms that supported her kept her upright, the love of her family kept her steady.

Nate felt the overwhelming urge to brush up against his mother's mind, and he nudged, gently, seeking shelter where none could. The loss of his mother's mental embrace still pained him like a phantom limb he'd always known was there. She was back and she loved him, that was all that mattered.

"Hey, bud, why don't you go and make your mom a nice cup of tea," He looked left, and then right, making sure the coast was clear before he added – "the chocolate biscuits are in the bottom draw."

"Yeah," he nodded as if deep in thougt. "Okay, dad. Milky, just the way mom likes it."

As they watched their son disappear around the corner, Jean turned to Scott, commenting on something Nate had said. "You know, that's the first time in week's he's actually called you dad without hesitating.

"Yeah," he admitted, even though the kink in his brow remained. "Yeah it is. But we both know our son, and we both know … that that's not the most important thing that has happened, today."

"Scott, it's important for Nate to …"

She was cut off by the stern words of her husband as they were ringing in her ears. "Damn it, Jean. When are you going to start being honest with me? When are you going to tell me what's really going on?"


	3. Chapter 2 - In the Name of the Father

**I don't own them. **

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Alexander Summers did not consider himself a bitter man. At least, not by the tether of his very own standards of merit. No, the model he chose to use for comparative measures was more of a military norm of attainment, a benchmark of proficiency or ineptness.

The son of the late, great, Major Christopher Summers had lived to endure the gravity of his own fair share of active duty. He was no stranger to the life of aggressive combat, nor the startling quota of consequences that had all together shattered his confidence and rendered him haunted by the confounding impact of biochemical changes to his body and his brain.

Alex was battle weary. He lacked the strength of men and his tolerance had been exhausted. He had grown tired, his mind ravaged with the fatigues of war. But he did not consider himself bitter atr all.

His days consisted of little more than game show television and scribing a list of pro's and con's that helped to allocate sufficient dietary nourishment to his beloved Burmese feline. As always, Snappy Tom's tasty selections promised real fish for real cats. But unless he worked the line in the factory, it was just the manufacturers word against his. Maybe whatever 'wholesome goodness' passed for fake fish just wasn't worth dwelling on.

If you believed what the fine print told you, there were sardines and red snapper for omega fatty acids. Light tuna and cheese was always backed as a good source of protien. And the stack of notes from his search engine fiesta had asserted that amino acids did support a healthy heart and a shiny coat.

But his choices were overwhelming.

A familiar feeling of unease gnawed at his gut, worry and fear curled in on him and made his chest tight. He was paralyzed with defeat, gripping the pantry shelf for nothing other than sheer support of his weight. The doorbell chimed and he jumped back. Suddenly, he didn't have to think. His actions were automated, like a command he had been programmed to obey.

Alex forced himself away from the kitchen and had to blink, once, twice. He cleared the fog of his mind and took another step. One foot moved to take its rightful place in front of the other, like an orderly march to answer the caller, whoever it was. His lips moved in sync as he counted his steps.

March, two, three, four.

Alex was surprised to see Jean. She hadn't been the first on his list of unexpected visitation, probably the last person he would have accurately named. The overnight bag didn't escape his observation, but he reserved his comment pending further scrutiny, mostly because Alex liked his sister-in-law.

Jean had gone out of her way to support him when he'd conformed to the demons in his mind, his breakdown had forced him to his knees. Scott understood the implications, but still remained standing, stoic, like a shadow of their father. He could show no emotion. Jean had made a comment once, in passing - that in their darkest days, Scott had known the salt of tears on his lips. But he was the strong one, Scott. Jean's emotions always had the best of her.

"Jean." He pulled the door open to greet her face to face. "What a surprise. Not that it's not nice to see you. You know that you're always welcome here."

Jean would bite, he knew, unlike his brother who would clench his jaw and ignore the obvious curiosity. Jean was nothing if not honest. She watched Alex closely, her fingers slipped from the chain at the hollow of her throat to her wrist, curling around to form a link. She held her composure and began to speak calmly.

"Hello, Alex. Forgive the intrusion. I know I come uninvited. You don't have company, do you?"

He shook his head and smiled kindly. Jean agonized over her family, Scott in particular. But they were not a burden, never a burden. Only Jean could think so lowly of herself. But he could not fault her loyalty, and with damn good reason.

"You know me, Jean. When have I ever been too busy to see you? Come in, the distraction is welcome." His hands we steady, but his fingers still held the last strains of tremmors that were likely to cripple him some day.

Hesitantly, faltering as she followed Alex across the threshold, Jean found herself stunned. Below the surface, her husband's presence lingered, complimented by that of their son. She shook her head. Maybe coming to see Alex had been a mistake. She opened her mouth to offer her apologies, but Alex knew better, shaking his head.

"Don't, Jean. I know you need this. I'm here for you. I can make you some coffee, and I guess we can go from there."

The words registered, but as the door closed behind her and she found herself seated on the edge of the living room chaise, her brows drawn together, her thumb nail between her teeth, Jean couldn't wait for the kettle to boil over. Her life, her death, her re-birth. There were no scars, there had been no wounds, no illness to take the spark that kindled her life fires. She simply had been, and then was no more. Knitting herself back together again was a mystery in itself. Was being undead, really being alive at all?

"I never thought the day would come when I'd leave Scott for his brother," she sighed, her breath like an exhalation that shattered around them, confounded by her grief. "But here I am. Betraying my husband in the worst way possible."

Alex stopped with the canister in his hand and set it down on the table, his brow furrowed. His expression shifted, the lines became neater, etched with concern.

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad, can it? I mean, Jean, you're very attractive, but ... You love Scott."

Jean hadn't known Alex as a teen, but the way that his voice broke and rippled brought a vision to mind.

"Jean?" Alex begged, seeking further clarification. "You're not coming on to me, are you?"

He was in over his head now, as he backed himself into the corner of the kitchen. "Jean, I won't be your rebound," he finished lamely. Christ, what was he thinking? Was he thinking?

"No," she agreed. "I would never do that to Scott, Alex. How could I? After everything that I have put him through, he'd never forgive me. I owe him so much, I don't even know where to begin. I don't deserve his absolution. How can he forgive me after he finds out that I'm a criminal? That I've taken a life?"

"Jean," Alex approached her cautiously, not wanting to spook her. "You're not making any sense. Do you want me to call Nate? Or Charles? I can call the Professor, he's much better at this kind of thing."

Jean sat in a daze, wrapped up in the torment of emotions she'd been shouldering since her meeting with the Professor, since Logan's return. She was uncomfortably tight in the chest, wound and obligated to confess her sin.

"Forgive me, Alex. Please, forgive me. I killed him, Alex. I remember. It's haunting me."

Alex knew that soldiers afflicted back on the front line were subjected to a range of infections that manifested as fever and delirium. Sometimes they exhibited strange behaviour. The mortality rate, as he recalled, was not at all pleasant. Was it possible that Jean had contracted some kind of infection? Was she possessed or cursed? He knew how that worked. Was it, was she - had the Phoenix returned? He shook his head.

But Jean's rambling made no sense. And without the kind of tools that the Professor had at his disposal, Alex was walking blindly into a mine field. His options were limited. His plasma blasts were powerful, would would they, and more importantly, could he hurt the shell of the woman that his brother loved so deeply? He wished the world was just swallow him up. His breathing became shallow as he gripped the sturdy table within his reach.

"Jean?"

"I killed him, Alex," she cried. "I killed him. I killed Scott."

Oh crap. Fuck. Crap, crap, crap. When had he unearthed Pandora's Box? He hadn't lifted that lid, he was sure. Jean wouldn't do that, she wouldn't kill Scott. He'd only spoken to his brother twenty three hours ago.

Jean sensed the lick of fear that sliced through the core of Alex' being. He was frightened. His heart was pounding. How could he think … Well, she hadn't made herself clear from the beginning. She cursed herself and held out her hands, staying in her spot, blinking, sending waves of calm to Alex as she could. She inhaled and licked her lips.

"No. Oh, God. No, Alex. It's not what you think. What am I saying? I wasn't thinking at all. Alaki Lake. It all started there. I know that Wolverine says that it doesn't matter, that it's not real. But it was real, it was real to me."

Alex recovered his nerve just in time to ask the one question lingering on his lips. "Jean, what are you talking about?"

She chuckled, the confusion plain to see on her Brother-in-law's face. "Have you got any hard liquor, Alex? I think we're going to need it."

Oh crap. Fuck. Crap, crap, crap. When had he unearthed Pandora's Box? He hadn't lifted that lid, he was sure. Jean wouldn't do that, she wouldn't kill Scott. He'd only spoken to his brother twenty three hours ago. 

Jean sensed the lick of fear that sliced through the core of Alex' being. He was frightened. His heart was pounding. How could he think … Well, she hadn't made herself clear from the beginning. She cursed herself and held out her hands, staying in her spot, blinking, sending waves of calm to Alex as she could. She inhaled and licked her lips.

"No. Oh, God. No, Alex. It's not what you think. What am I saying? I wasn't thinking at all. The Lake. It all started there. I know that Wolverine says that it doesn't matter, that it's not real. But it was real, it was real to me."

Alex recovered his nerve just in time to ask the one question lingering on his lips. "Jean, what are you talking about?"

She chuckled, the confusion plain to see on her Brother-in-law's face. "Have you got any hard liquor, Alex? I think we're going to need it."

He nodded over his shoulder. "I have Scotch. Aged a few years, a nice malt."

Jean moved to help him gather his supplies, but before he could turn, she'd caught his wrist gently, the pads of her fingers a soft touch against the warm skin. "Alex, you know that I love your brother, that Nate, that our boy is the light of my life. For the longest time, I wondered if we would ever have a child. I love him so much. He's the best parts of us, of Scott and me."

Despite his unease, Alex couldn't bring himself to disagree. That child had so much love. He was spoiled beyond reason, the apple of his fathers eye. Like a chip off the old block, if he knew one thing, Alex knew that what Jean and Scott had was for keeps.

"I know, Jean. But what does that have to do with what you're going to tell me?"

"Just keep it in mind," she offered. "And hold onto your drink. This is going to be one story that will blow your mind."

* * *

Just a little filler to get me back into this story before launching into the bulk of the plot. And I love Alex.

Also, I know that the movie plot seemingly pitches Alex as the older brother, but in my mind, Scott will always be the big brother.


End file.
